


I Fell Into Grace

by werebear



Series: Broken Wings [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cuddle Porn, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Other, Podfic Available, Touch-Starved, Wing Grooming, Wingfic, i guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-27 21:26:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19798093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/werebear/pseuds/werebear
Summary: “I just…” Aziraphale’s shoulders sank. “I’ve lost them. I’ve lost… and I can’t go back, not even one last time, can I.” He didn’t say it like a question, of course; he was clever, after all. He shook his head, ruefully, and looked at Crowley. “My last time up there, and it wasn’t even me, it was you.”





	I Fell Into Grace

**Author's Note:**

> This is part two, and I would suggest that you read the first one first, though it’s probably not totally essential.  
> Mostly show canon.  
> So many thanks to [idiopathicsmile,](http://archiveofourown.org/users/idiopathicsmile/pseuds/idiopathicsmile) and to [damecatoe](http://damecatoe.tumblr.com) (for whom I sort of wrote this), for reading and encouragement  
> Title from this poem (thanks to friend and beta [spiritsflame](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SpiritsFlame/pseuds/SpiritsFlame) for suggesting it, it really did shape the whole story): 
> 
> When I stumbled,  
> I stumbled  
> not backward,  
> but forward.  
> So when I fell,  
> I fell into grace.  
> \- Morgan Harper Nichols

After lunch at the Ritz; after nightingale singing and all that rot; after Aziraphale kissed him softly just outside the Bentley when Crowley dropped him at the bookshop; after Aziraphale smiled and said, “See you soon then, my dear”; after Crowley watched him disappear into the shop and stood staring at the door with something deeply suspect and all-too-familiar happening in his chest—Crowley panicked.

It was only a wee bit of panic, the kind where he went directly back to his flat, stepped carefully around the Ligur-stain on the carpet, paced for about three hours, then slept for thirty-six, then woke up and panicked again. Then he berated himself for an idiot, and started shoring up his defenses.

Obviously he’d long had wards and alarms set to warn him of angelic presences, powers, principalities, or whatever the Heaven they were calling themselves these days. That was just basics. But his defenses against other demons had had to be subtler. Couldn’t risk the suggestion that he wasn’t as committed to the cause as they’d like. It might be a given that demons don’t trust one another, but there were limits to the degree to which you could blatantly rub that in your bosses’ scabby and putrefying faces.

It had helped, in his sigil-designing back then, that he’d had to figure out how to make exceptions and allowances for one certain angel—good practice for the intricate and subtle designs that surreptitiously warned of demonic approach.

Anyhow, fuck subtle. There _had_ been limits, but things had changed, hadn’t they, and Crowley was in favor of upholding those changes. So he set up an entirely new array of much more aggressive wards and alarms, against both divine and occult powers. It involved a fair amount of chalk, and reference to note files on his mobile, and the one crumbling old book that had actually gotten most of this sort of thing right. And just a bit of hellfire lighting up the relevant curlicues of the diagrams.

It all took longer than he’d really intended—another three days—though it would’ve been only two if he hadn’t lost a not-insignificant amount of time to thinking about a certain angel and his gentle press of lips, and his warm breath on Crowley’s cheek, and his bloody beaming face, and—

Finally he was finished. He misted his plants and gave them only a cursory scolding, and, after a moment, carefully picked one up and took it with him over to Aziraphale’s bookshop.

**

He was still a demon, after all—he didn’t bother to _knock_ , just slipped in the front door, past the _Closed_ sign. It seemed strangely still inside.

“Angel?” Crowley called. He set the plant he’d brought on a little table by the door, with a stern look, and stepped further into the shop.

It was dim, and so quiet. A cream-colored jacket hung on the coat rack. There was a trace of an unfamiliar scent that Crowley didn’t much like… but he could _feel_ him here, somewhere, not like that terrible day (dear Someone, was it just a week ago? he wasn’t used to having to care so much about such small increments of time, honestly) when he’d burst in here, flames everywhere, already knowing he was too late, and Aziraphale was gone—

“Aziraphale!” he shouted, more insistently. Maybe he was upstairs, maybe he was at the pub nearby, maybe—

Crowley peered the length of the building, as much as possible through the partial maze of shelving. He could just see that couch toward the back of the shop, near the desk, the one that Crowley privately thought of as his own (and of _course_ he’d noticed its suspicious gradual lengthening over the years, the evolution from a cozy loveseat until he could flop lankily across it and stretch really satisfactorily—until it could even accommodate two beings, one sitting up calmly and reading, the other curled and pretending to sleep, not quite touching… but he wasn’t thinking about that just now…).

On the couch, curled up in one corner, Aziraphale was leaning, very still. His tie was hanging undone, his collar loose, and he was wrapped up tightly in his fluffy white wings, his knees pulled up, arms around them. There were little eddies of clutter around him, as always—several mugs; a bottle of single-malt whiskey, nearly empty; the ubiquitous piles of books and papers; pens and quills and gramophone records and scraps of paper and scarves and dear Somebody, was that a lap harp in the corner?—but today they seemed to be at high tide.

He was very still, his head a little bent and leaning against the back of the couch, and staring out the window too blankly. It should have been nothing, but Crowley was struck with an overwhelming impression of a lamp, low, guttering. (No, not a lamp. A pale winter sun, guttering. Darkening.)

Crowley had thought he was done panicking, at least for one week.

He had thought very much wrong.

Possibly he teleported across the shop, he’d probably never know for sure. All he knew was that he was suddenly kneeling by Aziraphale’s feet, and also his voice wasn’t working properly.

Aziraphale wasn’t—he wasn’t breathing.

 _He isn’t a_ **mortal** _,_ the back of Crowley’s mind growled at him, _you have been on this plane TOO LONG,_ as he panicked again. Which was almost certainly true, but at least it jump-started his vocal cords enough to creak out: “Aziraphale? Come on, you great fluffy berk, wakey wakey, I thought you weren’t keen on sleeping.”

He was so wrapped in his wings, and Crowley couldn’t—he wouldn’t just _touch_ them, not without invitation… but Aziraphale’s hands were hanging limply on his shins, just barely visible beneath feathers, and Crowley reached out and grasped his (chilly) fingers.

Aziraphale blinked, once, very slowly, then more rapidly, his eyes coming back into focus, and he inhaled.

Crowley exhaled. “Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale blinked again, swallowed, and then said, in a scratchy voice, “I wasn’t sleeping.”

Crowley knew that perfectly well. That hadn’t been sleep at all—sleep didn’t make you go all… all _dim_ like that _—_ but he wasn’t sure what it _had_ been.

Crowley sat well back on his heels as Aziraphale began to stir. He watched him grimace a little, putting his feet down on the floor, as if embarrassed to be caught with them up on the furniture. Which was ridiculous because Crowley had seen him prop his feet up on the coffee table or the desk more times than he could possibly count.

Aziraphale stretched a bit, cracked his neck. “Goodness, I didn’t—what time is it?” The words sounded normal, but his voice seemed drained. He paused, glancing around. “What, uh, day is it?”

“Saturday morning,” Crowley said. “Week since Not-Armageddon Day,” he added, just realizing. Then, seeing the look on his face: “Aziraphale. How long have you been—like this?”

“Um.”

_“Aziraphale.”_

A mumble. Crowley opened his mouth, but before he could make a sound, Aziraphale said, louder, “Since Tuesday evening, I, er, think,” and then Crowley made a sound like a tea kettle.

“Sorry to have worried you, dear,” Aziraphale said, but he still sounded… if a flat tyre could speak, it might have sounded something like that.

Crowley creaked to his feet. _“Worried,”_ he said, darkly. “How did—” He turned in a circle, casting about briefly. Aziraphale had, oh, wow, some rather impressive anti-demon wards, Crowley was going to have to take notes later, though not much in the way of anti-celestial… just a few alarms. But there was no scent of supernatural beings present recently beyond the two of them.

He turned back to the angel, who still had his wings out and around himself, and was, unsurprisingly, looking rather peaky, after at least _three bloody days_ of some mysterious inert state— Crowley snapped his fingers, then handed him the resulting glass of water.

“Oh. Thank you.”

Crowley watched him drink it, eyes narrowed, then asked, “So what happened?”

Aziraphale shook his head a little, looking down at the empty glass in his hands. They were shaking slightly.

Crowley bit his own tongue, hard. He flicked the side of the glass with a finger, filling it again. “Drink that,” he tried and failed not to snap, and then stalked over to a low cupboard in the far corner.

Five minutes and one magically boiling kettle later (heating things didn’t even count as a miracle when you were a demon, after all), and he came back to the couch with a tray. The tray contained tea in large mugs and three sour cherry scones, still warm, nicked through the air from that bakery over near King’s Cross. Crowley was set to defend himself on the subject of the scones _(I slipped a couple of quid in the till, angel, don’t fret)_ , but he didn’t even get a frown over them. In fact, Aziraphale barely seemed to notice them, just ate—steadily but without any of his usual flair and delight, and this was, by far, the most chilling development yet.

Crowley conceded far enough to sit at the other end of the couch and drink his own mug of tea, more of a silent encouragement than anything else. He did nothing to hide his expectant staring though.

At last Aziraphale finished, sighed, shifted. “I’m just feeling—rather down,” he said, hesitantly.

Crowley froze for a long moment. _Shit._ He took off his sunglasses and leaned forward. “Uh. It’s not… Is it my fault?”

Aziraphale looked relievingly taken aback. “What?”

Now Crowley felt entirely big-headed, but just to be clear— “I mean… because we—” he gestured vaguely to his face, “and then I, uh—I’m sorry, I meant to call but I… got rather involved in a project, and—”

Now Aziraphale’s expression was almost amused, and so much lighter that it was well worth whatever mockery Crowley might get for assuming— “No, no, dear. I certainly didn’t think you were having second thoughts or,” his lips compressed in an obvious effort not to smile, “er, playing hard to get or anything like that.”

Crowley could feel the blush on his face. He despised blushing: it clashed with his hair, and his eyes, and his very _nature,_ dammit. “No, no second thoughts,” he made himself say, blushing harder, but oh, Aziraphale’s soft eyes were worth it.

“Darling,” Aziraphale said, in _that voice,_ and Crowley had to sip some more tea, purely in self defense.

“So then, what…” Crowley began. Aziraphale looked away, and Crowley wanted to let it go, but what if— “Something about recent events?”

“So many to choose from,” Aziraphale murmured, fiddling with the spoon in his tea.

True, but… Crowley swallowed. “Anything happen while you were—in Hell?”

They hadn’t talked that much about the swapping of faces yet. Aziraphale had been rather bright and animated, gleeful in telling his account right after. (The contrast between that energy and his current deflated state made Crowley feel rather like he was going to choke.)

Crowley himself had said almost nothing about his side of the adventure. He was hesitant, and he wasn’t entirely sure why. It wasn’t like him to downplay, was it, not like him to pass up a chance to brag about a brilliant performance, even though…

All right, he knew why. Part of it was because he had felt so bloody careful. He’d even walked carefully—more carefully than he ever had in his entire existence, and it wasn’t just about trying to pass as Aziraphale—it was also that he couldn’t believe it was _working_ . How could _he_ be in the body of an _angel_ (and not just any angel: the best of them, by far, the most kind, the most loving, the most lovely… _his_ angel) and not be instantly struck by lightning? Why _didn’t_ they explode? It was baffling, unnerving, overwhelming, and also… an honor. He had been so wary.

But what if it had done Aziraphale some sort of damage, to be trapped in the body of a demon, even for less than a day?

Aziraphale shook his head, in answer, and made a face. “No, not particularly,” he said. “I didn’t like it.”

Crowley almost laughed. “Shocking.”

Aziraphale looked at him sidelong. “It was—” He shook his head, picking at the edge of a white feather with one hand. “They killed another demon there, testing the holy water.” He frowned in concentration. “I don’t know his name… a little round demon, little wings, sort of… friend-shaped?”

“Oh, what, the Usher?” Crowley scowled, felt a jarring of… some emotion. A distant memory of a chat and a mutual grooming once, maybe three thousand years ago. “Bastards. Why?”

“Hastur said… he just said, ‘Wrong place, wrong time,’” said Aziraphale, slowly.

“Sounds like Hastur.” Crowley didn’t understand why Aziraphale’s eyes were so intent and distressed, fixed on Crowley’s face. “What?”

Aziraphale looked away. “I hated it. I… I thought of you.”

“Me?”

Aziraphale fidgeted with the spoon some more. “You, before. Before—everything. ‘Wrong place, wrong time…’ Not even to mention,” he seemed to rouse a little, indignation all over his dear, round face, “they were going to do the same to you. Just a mock trial for the entertainment value!”

Crowley shrugged. The one thing to be said for Hell: they were, on occasion, almost reassuringly predictable.

“I had to keep your glasses on,” Aziraphale continued. “I was afraid I’d give it all away… I couldn’t bear the thought of you down there, not ever—it was so…”

“Hellish?” Crowley said, not quite smirking.

Aziraphale shot him a disapproving look. “Dirty, and cramped, and horrid. You, down there, with nothing you love, no plants, no Bentley, no freedom—”

“No fretting angels,” Crowley said, before he could stop himself.

Aziraphale’s face softened. “Yes, dear. I know.”

“All right, well. So Almost-Armageddon was a bit tiring, and then Hell was unpleasant, and then an inconsiderate demon kissed you and ran off without a word—”

“I think if you recall correctly, _I_ kissed _you,”_ Aziraphale said, wry. “And I told you, it’s not about that.”

“Not even a little?” Crowley immediately felt ashamed—realized he sort of wanted it to be about him, which was rotten of him; he shouldn’t want to make his angel unhappy.

But Aziraphale smiled a little, as if he understood. “The merest smidge, perhaps,” he said, “but you needn’t worry about that.”

“So what should I be worrying about, then?”

Aziraphale’s face went a bit blank. “I—” Crowley raised an eyebrow expectantly. “I’m not sure I should tell you.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not—” _‘Important’? ‘Necessary’? ‘Appropriate’?_ Crowley had counterarguments at the ready. He wasn’t prepared for Aziraphale to say, “considerate.”

Crowley stopped, blinked. _Not… considerate._ He pulled back, eyes narrowing, and looked around again, at the detritus: the books, the papers, the specifics of them… the lap harp in the corner and a musical score scattered next to it, open to _Edelweiss…_ This was about… oh.

Oh.

For an awful moment, Crowley felt all that old rage and bitterness, so old, older than the Earth, rushing through him, like a flash flood out in those American deserts. _You see, Angel,_ it taunted, _see? THIS is what it feels like. You_ let _them do it to us, to me, didn’t you, see how you like it. At least they let you keep your wings intact, at least—_

It lasted for only a second, a blink of his eyes, before he felt an equally strong rush of—echhh, it was tenderness, it was sorrow, it was fucking _compassion_. It should feel like a cloying film of holiness on his skin, but he’d become unavoidably inured, over the years. And now—well. Now he could feel what he liked, couldn’t he, and all his “superiors” could just go to Hell. Stay in Hell. Could all just jump into a lake of holy water for all he cared. He turned, leaned forward.

“You haven’t Fallen, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale dropped his eyes. “I—I know, I—”

“You haven’t,” Crowley said again, insistently. “I’d know. Hells, _you’d_ know. Trust me.”

Aziraphale took a breath. “I do know, I know you’re right. It’s not even the same thing, and I shouldn’t… it’s why I didn’t go to your flat earlier this week, before… it’s just… how could I talk about this? To you?”

“Who else are you going to talk about it with?” As soon as he said it, Crowley wanted to wince.

“That’s also true,” Aziraphale smiled ruefully, shook his head. “I’m too soft. I shouldn’t worry about talking about it at all.”

Now Crowley wanted to snarl. “Who told you that?”

“What?”

“Who told you that you were too soft?”

Aziraphale looked taken aback. “No one… in particular, I just—” He fluttered. “Isn’t it obvious?” He gestured vaguely.

Crowley knew Aziraphale: he wasn’t a human, and he didn’t mean his rounded face, or his belly, or his, his thighs, all of which Crowley was still hoping to see significantly more of at some later date. He didn’t even mean his wings, still wrapped around him now, nest-like, or his relentless pursuit of comfortable pillows and clothes and sustenance. Crowley knew: he meant his heart, his fucking _soul_ , his core of love and faith and—and if Gabriel and those other bastards had done this to his angel, then Crowley only wished he could step back in time and breathe out that hellfire just a little faster and further than he had.

Aziraphale was going on, though. “Anyway, there’s nothing about it that can be—be helped, at least not right now, so—”

“You listened to me,” Crowley said, interrupting. “Plenty of times. Back before all this—I’d get completely plastered, because some days I—I just couldn’t bear it, and I tried not to say anything, because it was stupid. It wasn’t like wallowing in the past could, could make me not a demon.” Crowley cleared his throat. “Not like you could fix it, but you—you listened.” _And touched my wings,_ he thought. _Softly._ The number of times he’d taken out that memory, like the most precious of pearls, you’d think it would be dulled by now, but it wasn’t, not a jot. He looked at Aziraphale’s wings, and then looked out the window and sat still, resisting twin urges: to reach out, or else to sit on his hands. “Talking about it didn’t change it, but it helped. Helped me. Maybe it could help you.”

Crowley could see the inner battle, all over his angel’s dear, transparent face, and he pressed his advantage, because he was sort-of-evil, after all. “I want to listen,” he said, as gently as he could manage.

“Oh! I—” Aziraphale’s hands were wrapped around his mug, but Crowley could see them twitch. “Thank you,” he said very simply, before falling silent. Bars of early afternoon sunlight, glinting with dust, lengthened a bit across the worn rug, the scuffed boards of the floor. 

Crowley was probably the most patient demon in existence, but that wasn’t saying much at all, was it? Still, he waited till Aziraphale stirred again.

“I just…” His shoulders sank. “I’ve lost them. I’ve lost… and I can’t go back, not even one last time, can I.” He didn’t say it like a question, of course; he was clever, after all. He shook his head, ruefully, and looked at Crowley. “My last time up there, and it wasn’t even me, it was you.”

Crowley winced a little.

He hadn’t talked about it. He hadn’t wanted to talk about the memories, about the look of the light, the feel of the aether. The knowledge that his other form, his true form, would probably have been obliterated on the spot, just standing there.

All that was true, but now—now he realized it was also this. That he knew—he _knew_ it would hurt Aziraphale, to hear how Gabriel and the others behaved. It would hurt him so very badly, and Crowley didn’t want to be responsible for that. He should’ve known he wouldn’t be able to avoid it.

“You’re well shut of it,” Crowley said, not harshly. “Still looks like a high-end car dealership gone wrong. Gabriel’s still there, and that’s enough reason to stay as far away as possible.” Aziraphale smiled a little, as Crowley meant him to, but he still looked— Crowley didn’t want to say it, he knew it’d only hurt him more, but he couldn’t stand to see him looking so miserable over those fucking bastards. He said, almost pleading, “They didn’t even have a trial, Aziraphale, not even a pathetic sham of one. They didn’t blink, they didn’t hesitate. They told you to—”

Crowley shut his eyes and gritted his teeth. They hadn’t even had the courtesy to throw him into the flames—they told him to _step in,_ all on his own, like they already knew he would do it just because he was so goddamn obedient, deep down, so fucking goddamn _faithful_ he’d let himself be _destroyed, forever,_ and they KNEW that, and they still would just—throw that away like it was NOTHING—like _he_ was NOTHING—and FOR nothing, nothing more than empty pride and pathetic power scrambling, like that was anything next to the way Aziraphale just _was_ , the way he shone like a stupid fucking beacon of—and—and—

“Don’t catch on fire, dear,” said Aziraphale, gently, and Crowley gasped and bent over a little, holding his head, trying to quiet it _(—and it would’ve worked too; if it weren’t for Agnes, he’d be gone, gone—)._ He took another breath, and another. Cooling, quieting.

“I imagine,” Aziraphale said at last, “that they told me…well. That they wouldn’t listen.” Crowley looked at him, at his bowed white-blond head, at his soft hands, squeezing the mug. “I know how Gabriel can behave when he’s thwarted and furious. I know how they— I didn’t want to think Agnes was right, but—” Aziraphale looked up, and his face was so weary. “My dearest, did you think I didn’t know?”

“Then _why?”_ Crowley’s voice cracked, embarrassingly. He wasn’t even entirely sure what he meant by the question.

Aziraphale seemed to understand it, all the same. “It’s foolish, I’m aware.” He shook his head. “Perhaps I shouldn’t still love them—but then,” with a twitch of his mouth, “that’s what they’d say about my loving you, dear.”

 _Oh sure,_ Crowley thought, distantly. _Sure, he just SAYS it._ And: _How? How does he just SAY it?_ And: _oh, oh, he—he finally—he…_

Aziraphale turned the mug in his hands, around and around. “I don’t like to think of it. I’ve never liked to think of it. I don’t like to think about how little has really changed, now. I’ve felt the—difference between them and me for such a long time. Every time I saw them, it would hurt because,” he wrinkled his nose, in thought and consternation, “they were so—clueless.”

 _‘As if,’_ Crowley thought, reference and also sarcasm.

Aziraphale gave him a fond/exasperated look that said, _I know what you’re thinking; I know you saw that film four times in the first week._ “And not in the good way—in the way that doesn’t care. Dismissive. They stopped understanding why God would care about mortals at all. They’re too old and too strong and too much more powerful than any human, and they… thought everything was about, about winning, about beating you all.”

Crowley nodded an encouragement: _keep going, angel, get it off your chest._ Secretly, he also felt a wee bit smug: _‘didn’t need to talk about it,’ my_ arse, _angel._

Aziraphale’s voice picked up, in volume, in speed. “So many of them, they don’t _see_ any of this, everything small and fragile and essential, they don’t care, they’re disdainful and blasé and irritable. Like human children tormenting ants. Worse than. It doesn’t even occur to them that they should do anything else. They’re so sure they’re right. And all they care about is the power to do it, because they’re—they’re _fucking bored._ ”

Crowley listened to his fierce voice, a thrum underneath it. He thought about a cherubim at the wall of a Garden, giving a flaming sword to two helpless mortals, out of kindness, out of compassion. And it wasn’t just the softness of heart — it was the willingness to relinquish that power. To share it. (And who else would have done that? Not the Archangel Fucking Gabriel, that was certain.) Even if you got in trouble for it. Even if it came back to bite you later.

What a fuck-up it all was.

Still— _‘I gave it away,’_ he heard distantly in his head, in his memory, and he felt that same burning leap of the heart that he had felt all those thousands of years ago.

Aziraphale was going on, a hand worrying at the edges of his secondary feathers, pulling the barbs apart. “And I’m an idiot. They weren’t listening to me, even when I did try. I didn’t want to see it, and I… I wanted them to be better. I wanted to hope that they could—”

He stopped and swallowed. Crowley kept his face very still. Change, forgiveness—never been his forte, not even Before. He was reasonably sure that he didn’t have it in him to look into Gabriel’s punchable face and think, _maybe there’s hope for you._ (Especially after recent developments.) Good thing it wasn’t his job.

One of Aziraphale’s hands plucked at another feather, the other fidgeted with his mug. “I hoped… but I never expected them to change, I suppose, not really. I wanted to hope so much though. Because—they weren’t always like that.”

Aziraphale hesitated, looked into Crowley’s eyes.

 _Ahh. I see,_ Crowley thought. He felt the corner of his mouth quirk up, ruefully, and gave a _go-on-then_ lift of the chin. _Doesn’t want to make me sad,_ he thought, fondly. _It’s not like I’ve forgotten, angel._

It wasn’t like he could ever forget.

Unwilling to just take the hint, Aziraphale said, slowly, “I know that you know this.” 

“Well, it’s been a long time.” In the spirit of honesty, he added, “I do try not to think about it much.”

Aziraphale nodded. “And I’m—I’m so sorry again, my dear. I know that your circumstances are—were—so much different. So much worse. I know you’re much more relieved to be rid of Hell, than I am a-about this.”

“‘S’not about winning a contest, angel.”

Aziraphale laughed, thickly. “Yes, yes, you’re quite right.”

Still, he fiddled with his empty mug some more, until Crowley gently plucked it from his fingers and stretched backwards at an improbable angle to set it on the side table behind him. Then he settled back down, cross-legged, closer, facing the angel, and took both his hands in his own. “I want to listen,” he said.

Aziraphale took a shuddering breath; his wings shuddered more quietly, almost soundless. His voice was soft but steady, though, as he spoke: “They weren’t always like that. I remember when they—when we used to create things. Together. Stars! And plankton, and mantis shrimp, and algae, and whales, and bowerbirds, and magpies, and, and sparrows—”

“Big fan of the Fifth Day, were you,” Crowley murmured, and Aziraphale laughed.

“Not nearly as much as Hanael, remember?”

“I do.”

“And remember Israfil and the songbirds?” Aziraphale shook his head, smiling, but it was shaky. “And even insufferable Gabriel used to help everything go more smoothly.” 

Crowley pressed Aziraphale’s soft, strong fingers with his own long, bony ones, and Aziraphale squeezed back.

“I remember… the singing. I remember,” said Aziraphale, and now his voice was shivering, slipping, “when we were—were _family_ , when we were like those marvelous Incan walls—the, the polyagonal masonry, all those very different stones, but slotted together perfectly, working together, and—oh _God_ , and now—” 

How deeply unimaginative Hell can be, Crowley thought. Watching Aziraphale’s face right now, struggling for composure, like a sand castle sliding under the tide, was so painful it made Crowley want to armor himself, to turn into a tortoise or a cockroach or one of those ankylosaurus dinosaurs (shame they’d never existed). It was _awful_ ; it was _embarrassing_ ; it made him want to be _mean_ , just to distract them both away from it. He bit his tongue again.

Aziraphale was whispering ( _probably to avoid sniveling,_ said Crowley’s mind, to which he snarled in response, _you shut up_ ), “Now, I’m—I’m a-alone, and even though it’s been so, so long since I really _connected_ with them, I still—I still want them, but they don’t want _me,_ and I just—”

Aziraphale’s face had never been a castle of any kind, had it. There were no walls in it to come down. Aziraphale’s face was like sleeping out of doors, bare in a field, under a sky of endless stars, open to everything, projecting bloody _everything,_ and now—oh. This. Oh, Crowley knew this, he remembered _this_ —

“I just—I feel _forsaken,”_ Aziraphale said, and he gasped like he was breathing in hellfire, eyes squinching shut. He ducked his head and tried to pull his hands up to cover his face. 

“Here, love,” Crowley said, roughly, and gathered him into his arms instead, so Aziraphale could press his face into Crowley’s chest and hide his sobbing there.

Crowley drew him closer, enfolded him in dark wings. “Shhh, I know.” There hadn’t been anyone to hold him through this, so long ago. But he was here now. _“Ahuvi, ahuvati ,”_ he whispered, again and again, sing-song, into Aziraphale’s ear. _My love, my love, my love._

**

Crowley wasn’t sure exactly how long they stayed like that, rocking slightly, the only sounds small, broken ones, vibrating against him, and his own murmuring. (It wasn’t quite the old Celestial Tongue—that had been burned out of him by the Fall—but it was close, the closest he could come. Some of the words were even the same.)

Even when Aziraphale quieted at last, he still shivered and clutched at Crowley’s shirt, forehead pressed to his collarbone, so Crowley stayed put.

At some point it occurred, faintly, to Crowley to wonder if angel tears would qualify as holy water. He felt them stinging a bit on his skin, where his shirt dipped at the neck. Well, he hadn’t melted yet. He pulled Aziraphale closer again, until the angel sighed and sat up.

He wiped tears off his face, nose red and drippy, and yet somehow managed to look particularly cherubic when he said, disgruntled: “ _Crying._ What a wretched system.” Crowley couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Aziraphale cry. (Demons, of course, did not cry at all.) Aziraphale shook his head, impatiently, and said, “And I’m a wretched host, too, aren’t I? I should get you—”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, rolling his eyes, and tugged on his arm.

“And it’s a mess in here,” Aziraphale said, weakly, glancing around, but he subsided and wiggled in under Crowley’s arm, head tucked sideways into his shoulder.

Crowley valiantly refrained from pointing out the obvious, which was that the place was always a tip, and instead just let his chin rest on the top of Aziraphale’s head. His eyes wandered around the room as he listened to Aziraphale’s unnecessary but soothing breathing.

“Thought your lot didn’t play harps,” Crowley said at last. Possibly should’ve thought first, but Aziraphale’s mouth crooked up.

“They really don’t,” he said, “but I was, er, rather intoxicated earlier.” 

“Yeah,” said Crowley. Not now though. He realized, belatedly, that he was stroking Aziraphale’s feathers with two fingers of one hand. He almost jerked his arm away, but—

“Your coverts are in a state,” Crowley said instead.

Aziraphale looked up, blinked. “Oh, well, I suppose they—” Remembered. “Oh. You—you remember—”

Every bloody day. “‘Course. Don’t you?” _Do you think I let just anyone—_ he didn’t say.

“Well, yes.”

“So? My turn?” He wanted to pet the white feathers again, but didn’t.

“Oh, I…” Aziraphale’s eyes were big in his face, and he swallowed. He had that _oh but I don’t want to impose_ expression on.

Crowley leaned in enough to say, quietly, right into Aziraphale’s ear: “Angel, let me. Please.”

Aziraphale shivered. “Yes,” he said, taking a great breath. “Yes, all right.” He sat up, abruptly, and suddenly phased his wings away, and awkwardly shrugged off his open waistcoat. 

Crowley caught his breath.

Aziraphale avoided his eyes, saying, “May as well do things properly,” as he began undoing the buttons on his pale blue shirt.

“S’pose so,” said Crowley, tea-kettling internally.

Wings are… there, and not there, in stages. They can be invisible, or just a vague outline, out of sync with the current dimension. They can also be visible and touchable and so forth without fully being manifest on this plane, which was usually the most convenient option. (Thank Somebody, or Aziraphale would have destroyed his favorite coat back at the Apocalypse and Crowley would have had to listen to him complain about it for at least the next century.) So in a sense they’re always there, but sometimes “there” is a fluid concept.

But for this… Crowley would swear on anything anyone would like that he’d only meant this as some soothing, comfort preening. He wasn’t trying to start anything that would require Officially Making an Effort, if you will.

But he knew what “properly” meant—not some humanly seductive thing, but far worse: it meant Aziraphale bringing his wings out onto this plane fully, where they would be fully present. Fully vulnerable. Not to mention, probably, his preen gland, and maybe in theory that was normal for the activity at hand, but it was also wildly intimate, and Crowley swallowed hard and willed himself not to spontaneously discorporate.

“Do you want me to fetch your kit-thing?” Crowley asked. He didn’t want to assume anything, not today. He was dizzyingly, mortifyingly desperate not to fuck this up.

“No, no, no need,” Aziraphale answered, turning away. He tugged his sleeves off his wrists, then pushed the shirt off his shoulders. The tails were still tucked into his trousers, and he let it hang down at the waist.

Crowley got just a glimpse of Aziraphale’s pale back and soft sides, before he brought his wings back out, in a near-silent rush of displaced air and a scent like dawn in the desert.

They were so large, in full form like this, even half-folded, the bend of them above his head. Crowley tentatively put a hand on one. Aziraphale’s feathers nearly glowed, and they were soft, almost like an owl’s. 

They were also a _disaster_ —ruffled, feathers crooked and disheveled, many of them pulled apart and ragged, unkempt at the edges.

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” he swore at the sight, exasperated.

Aziraphale ducked his head, but he sounded almost pleased to hear it. “I know, I know…”

“You’re a fright, angel,” said Crowley, and paused. “Where’s your…”

“Right…” Aziraphale looked over his shoulder and reached behind him, awkwardly. “There, mid-back.” He looked as frustrated as a human woman who couldn’t _quite_ reach her brassiere clasps. (An expression Crowley remembered in the mirror all too well from his time as Warlock’s nanny.) “It’s deucedly hard to reach in this form, I’m afraid… well, for me.”

“Hmm, mine’s more—here.” Crowley tapped the spot, on Aziraphale, higher, just where the top of his shoulder blades would touch if he stretched. Easy for Crowley’s long arms to reach on himself, he had to admit… still no excuse for this state, Crowley refrained from saying.

“I can hear you thinking,” said Aziraphale, in a smiling voice.

He probably didn’t mean it literally. “Well, next time I’m going to say it,” Crowley groused. “Lucky you’re such a pitiful sight right now.”

He didn’t let himself hesitate. There was a small patch, like a birthmark, on Aziraphale’s mid-back, and Crowley drew his fingers across it, lightly. They came away sheened with oil, and Aziraphale shivered. It smelled a little of almonds, of dates—Crowley remembered it from that night. (He hadn’t done any proper grooming for almost a month, to let the smell linger for as long as possible. But he didn’t have to admit that, did he.) 

Crowley began the preening. Aziraphale’s feathers obviously required somewhat different care than his own. He combed through the long flight feathers, carefully zipping up barbules and straightening the shafts. Then, his fingers almost dry again, he started working underneath, attending to some of the underlayers.

 _Every heaven and hell,_ Crowley thought, helpless with discovery, _he has powder down feathers on his shoulders._ The down was under the scapulars: cloud-like, insubstantial, so soft that it confused the signals to Crowley’s skin when he touched it.

“You are… so soft,” Crowley said, wonderingly.

“Yes, I do think we discussed that earlier.” Aziraphale’s voice seemed a little strained.

Crowley thought again, of the sword, of those tears. “It’s hard to be soft,” he said, quietly. He fluffed up the down with the tips of his fingers. True to the name, the powder down left a pale dusting on his fingerpads. “Hard to be soft _and_ staunch. Hard to keep letting things hurt you, every time.” Moved on to the down on the other shoulder. “Hard to keep loving things.”

Aziraphale twisted a little, peered back over his shoulder, his face half-puzzled. “It’s not—I mean, I just—what?”

 _God, he has no idea,_ Crowley thought, in Her general direction, wherever that was. _He never really does, does he._ He shook his head and ducked enough to kiss Aziraphale’s wing, a brief brush of lips. From this close, Crowley could see that not all the feathers were pure white; some were shot through with silver, or had gold stippling across the quills. “You _are_ soft, darling. It’s why I worship you.”

“Blasphemy,” Aziraphale murmured, shivering.

Crowley smiled like a shark, or like a demon. “That’s my job, love.”

“Hmm.” Aziraphale turned back around, dropped his chin. “ _Was_ your job.”

“Touché.”

Continuing, Crowley gathering a little more oil on his fingers, trying not to obsess over the soft inhale Aziraphale made when he did. The angel had turned enough in his seat that he could pull up his knees, and his forehead rested on them, while his spine curved sweetly over.

Crowley tried to focus, but he couldn’t help lingering some over Aziraphale’s left wing. Ugh, he was getting positively _maudlin_ in his advanced existence. 

But Crowley started to notice that Aziraphale was still shaky, and seemed to be getting more tense. That didn’t seem right. Last time, when Aziraphale had groomed him… well, it was true that Crowley had been a bit stubbornly drunk, but mostly he had been blissed out on the warmth, on the angel’s presence, even on… the sense of safety, which was maybe the most precious of all. He never let anyone near his wings, no one. Not for the last two thousand years, not if he could help it; alone in his flat, he would stretch and contort and magic some floating combs about in the air to keep his wings neat and in order. Being able to relax and let someone else get all the tricky spots—having someone to do it at all—was almost more than he’d been able to endure, twelve years ago.

But right now—he could see Aziraphale’s shoulders rounding and tensing. He could feel a slight tremor in his wings every time he touched them, and it—surely this wasn’t right.

He was close to finished with the preening, though he didn’t want to stop—to be honest he was a feeling a bit dazed with the tremulous thrill of seeing, of finally touching—but it really wasn’t right. “Angel,” he said, pausing. “Are you all right? Do you need me to stop?”

Aziraphale shook his head, face against his beige trouser knees.

“Unconvincing,” Crowley said, gently, and put a hand on the skin of his shoulder. “What’s up? You seem—”

Aziraphale lifted his face to the ceiling, eyes closed. His voice came out a bit pinched, almost peevish. “I don’t want you to stop, Crowley, I’m just…”

“Tense as fuck,” said Crowley, wryly, and squeezed his shoulder.

Aziraphale’s skin twitched, in a rolling shudder like a horse out in the sun. (Crowley was not a fan of horses, but he still wanted to stroke him soothingly.) “I’m just, er. Sensitive. Very sensitive.” He laughed, nervous. “It’s rather embarrassing.”

“Oh.” Crowley considered this. “Just been a while?”

“You could say.”

That sounded… “When’s the last time—”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember.” 

What. Crowley tried not to gape. “Thought Upstairs would be all touchy-feely, groom and kiss and hug it out—” At least sometimes, surely.

“Not… not recently.” Aziraphale put his head down again, so that it was muffled when he said, “Partly it’s the Earthly form as well, perhaps. I don’t know what to _do_ with all this… sometimes my skin aches.” He said it in a whisper, like something shameful, and fuck that, obviously.

“Well, fuck that, obviously,” Crowley said, aloud, and if his angel needed some touching, it was by far the most pleasant duty he could imagine accepting. He scooted closer, and ran his hands firmly up either side of Aziraphale’s spine. Aziraphale seemed to bite off a squeak.

“All right?”

His shoulders wriggled under Crowley’s hands, but also leaned back into them. “Y-yes.”

Good, thought Crowley, and kept going, stroking firmly up and down his back, then venturing over, down over his ribs and to the soft curve of his sides. The way Crowley’s fingers pressed in, dimpling into the padding there—it was comfort and richness, it was glorious, and Crowley was not going to swoon, he was _not._

Aziraphale gasped, said something indistinct.

“What was that?”

“F-feathers, too.” He took what was obviously meant to be steadying breath. “If you please.”

Always so bloody polite. Crowley grinned, dizzily, and slid one hand around to Aziraphale’s delightfully plump belly, pulling him close, and then brushed a free hand up, over the middle of Aziraphale’s back (his breath skipped, echoed by Crowley’s), and over to his left wing. He insinuated his fingers in among his secondary coverts, carefully but relentlessly, all the way to the base of the feathers, under the layer above, brushing the velvety skin hidden there— Aziraphale gave a proper whimper.

Crowley was panting himself, pressing closer and closer, outright draped over Aziraphale’s back at this point, cheek resting against his shoulder. He was so _warm_ , and he _smelled_ like— Crowley felt positively drunk. He must have oil all over his shirt. He kept his hands moving a little, soft and rhythmic. Aziraphale was gasping, and clutching at Crowley’s arm across his chest. His hair tickled Crowley’s nose as his head tipped back.

Crowley was sorely tempted to shift into a snake for more comprehensive twining, but then he wouldn’t have hands to hold on with, would he? He sighed against the skin of Aziraphale’s neck and then let his tongue flicker out against it, softly, smell-tasting.

Aziraphale gave a devastating moan, and lurched forward, away. Crowley might have protested, but he was back directly, almost faster than Crowley could blink, back and climbing into Crowley’s lap, straddling his hips, pressing him backwards into the couch. He was shaking, their faces close, his hands fluttering in little taps across Crowley’s chest and shoulders, thumbs brushing his sharp collarbones.

“I want…” His eyes were big, his voice unsteady. He touched Crowley’s upper wing, a wobbly caress. “I want to do yours, too. Again. I should—I want…”

“Later, love,” Crowley said, not entirely steady himself, and kissed him.

It just barely occurred to Crowley that perhaps he should be doing something else too, rather than just kissing and clutching and pulling Aziraphale closer. He knew the sorts of things that humans did, and maybe he should—? But he was so engrossed he couldn’t seem to make the effort, Official or otherwise.

Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind. His hands cupped around the back of Crowley’s head, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, and he alternated between kissing Crowley’s mouth and just breathing against it, hot and humid.

“Crowley,” he said, in _that voice,_ again, looking at him with half-lidded eyes. “Oh Crowley.”

“Yes, love?” Crowley said, rather more brightly than he would have thought he could manage at this juncture.

Aziraphale closed his eyes, looking overcome. “Crowley. You—you know that you—you gave me—” His voice cut off with a moan as Crowley rubbed long fingers up, right around the base of his wings where they met his shoulders.

“What was that, angel?” Crowley was half sincere, half shit-eating grin about it.

“Oh g— Do that again,” Aziraphale demanded, breathy.

“Like this?”

Aziraphale nodded, shaking.

Crowley watched his face, hungrily: the tremble of his lower lip, his eyes fallen shut. Longer ago than Crowley cared to think about, long and long, before the Fall, when they were all almost nothing but wings…

Then, angels had mingled and merged and flowed into one another unhindered. He remembered, very distantly, the flow, the meshing, the blurring of borders… He didn’t think all that was possible, in their current corporeal state, at least not exactly. But somehow the contrast—and participation—of these fragile physical forms—the superfluous breaths that felt so essential right now, the warmth and prickle of skin on skin—made it different, but… maybe better.

Maybe next time they could add more human things. (Crowley shivered at his own presumption: _next time.)_

 _Don’t think about that._ “Is it good?” Crowley said, half-teasing out of self-defense. His heart was creaking with fullness. “Tell me, angel.”

Aziraphale, gasping, gave him a sideways look, and then very deliberately slid one of his clutching hands down the back of Crowley’s neck, inside his rather loosened collar, between his shoulder blades—

Crowley hissed, emphatically, his whole body jerking.

Humming, Aziraphale drew glistening fingers back, sitting back enough to study them. His eyes were a little glazed over, but his mouth quirked and he met Crowley’s eyes as he delicately licked his fingertips.

 _“Aziraphale,”_ Crowley croaked: shocked, delighted, gaping.

“Mmm,” replied Aziraphale, commentary and also answer. He licked his upper lip.

“Ngk,” Crowley managed, and kissed him again, and—and wrapped his wings up and around them both.

The sensation of their wings brushing over one another was entirely, excessively, sublimely too much; Crowley tried to choke back a cry and failed miserably. Aziraphale didn’t even try it seemed, just cried out, wordless, into Crowley’s mouth.

It was too much—like a shock of hot and cold water curling together; like ancient grafted trees, inseparable; like fingers interlocking, secure and desperate. Crowley writhed a little.

“Don’t stop, don’t—stay with me, Crowley, please,” Aziraphale panted against Crowley’s lips, pressing and stroking his wings against Crowley’s, almost a wringing of hands, but a bit less anguished, a bit more ecstatic. (And decidedly more feathery.) 

_This idiot,_ Crowley thought, briefly, _as if I’d ever leave,_ and then his thoughts flashed to the one thing he’d had to strain the most not to protest, earlier, when he was trying to just listen to Aziraphale’s broken voice. Suddenly it was the most vital thing in the world to answer that, now, immediately. Pleading, he said, “You’re not alone, angel, you’re not, I swear—”

Aziraphale laughed, a little wildly, and put his hands around Crowley’s sharp jaw, setting their foreheads together. “I know, oh my darling, my dearest— _beloved,_ I know, I know.” And then whispered to him, _“Ahuvi, ahuvati.”_

There was only so much a poor demon could take. Crowley’s mind whited out, brilliantly.

He felt Aziraphale shining and shining, through every part of him. He felt like the moon—luminous, impossibly reflective.

**

He wasn’t actually unconscious. But Crowley came back to himself to find Aziraphale kissing his closed eyelids, very softly. Aziraphale was breathing hard, drinking in air like a delicacy.

Crowley remembered once: two thousand years ago or thereabouts, a traded miracle, the first one, well before they had an officially shared arrangement. He couldn’t quite remember how it had happened, though he suspected it might’ve been due to too much date wine in an inn in Bethel. They’d both had too much, and to get Aziraphale to stay the evening, a drunk Crowley had rashly promised to “do his chores” for him in the morning. Including troubling the healing waters at the pool of Bethesda the next morning.

It should have been nothing—he’d been invisible, his wing sweeping ripples out over the surface of the pool. He even had mental excuses ready, in case of any Hellish inquiries: only one human could be healed each time, the others had to stew in bitterness and disappointment—surely that could be turned to infernal purposes, and so on. Instead, all the waiting, infirm humans had held back, watching, to let a mother with a tear-streaked face bring her pale, coughing child forward… Instead, they’d all… smiled at the child’s newly brightened face; patted the mother’s hands and cheeks, wet again with tears; thanked God and also the angel of the pool; _rejoiced…_

It had left him feeling almost like this—quivering, broken open. He hadn’t collected any favors in return; he hadn’t proposed such an exchange again for almost two hundred years. It was too much, and he’d refused to think about it then, and why should he start now.

Aziraphale seemed utterly uninterested in sitting up or moving away. They clung together, breath evening out slowly, Aziraphale mostly collapsed. He must be tired, Crowley thought. Crowley’s legs were a bit pins-and-needles, but he was remaining entirely mum on the subject. He’d magic it away if he had to.

Every so often one of them brushed a wing back and forth over the other, and they both shivered again.

“You didn’t let me finish my thought, before,” Aziraphale said, eventually, stroking Crowley’s hair back off his forehead.

“Hm?” Crowley leaned into the hand.

“You’ve given me so much, love.”

“What?”

“Like.” He waved one hand: upwards, downwards. “An alternative that I could bear. I couldn’t… but you gave me that, my dear.”

 _Took you long enough,_ Crowley thought, but he’d never say it. It had taken him almost three thousand years to fully admit to himself that he wasn’t just regularly seeking out a certain angelic counterpart for professional reasons, so who was he to cast stones, really?

Oh Someone, and Aziraphale wasn’t finished, of course he wasn’t. “I’m sorry it took me so long—”

Crowley interrupted; he had to. “Angel, please—” He couldn’t take this just now, with everything raw and open.

But there was no dissuading him. Aziraphale put his forehead back against Crowley’s again, and Crowley shivered under the crushing weight of so much earnestness. “You give me faith, dearest, you—you make me still believe, you—”

“Now who’s blaspheming,” Crowley cut in, sputtering, because he couldn’t endure this. Either it wasn’t really true, in which case they were probably both about to be obliterated by some sort of divine retribution, or—or— The alternative didn’t bear considering.

Aziraphale smiled—radiated, beamed. ( _When will my suffering end?_ Crowley wondered, distantly, helplessly, looking at his soft face.) “I love you, Anthony J. Crowley.”

Crowley whimpered. Pressed his face into Aziraphale’s neck. Where was that divine obliteration when you really needed it?

**

Eventually, they had to pull themselves together and get off the couch.

Crowley stretched, one eye on Aziraphale, measuringly. He was sitting at his desk, humming vaguely as he re-tied his bowtie. His wings were gone (for now). He looked better, if perhaps a little tired, a little wilted.

Speaking of which.

Crowley sauntered back from the the front door, plant in tow. “Brought you something.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale stopped buttoning his waistcoat and tilted his head, pleased but puzzled. He cupped its pot in his hands. “It’s lovely. Such striking leaves! What’s its name?” 

“…it’s a begonia. A type of begonia. And it’s _not_ meant to have those yellowing patches,” Crowley said, glaring pointedly. “It should know _better_ , shouldn’t it.”

He could see Aziraphale restrain himself from obviously hovering protectively over the thing. “I’m delighted to have you, little one,” he cooed over it. Ugh. Lost causes, both of them. He peered up at Crowley’s face. “But I wouldn’t have thought—” He paused. “I didn’t think you gave your plants second chances.”

Crowley didn’t really know what he’d been thinking, bringing that little disappointment over here. “Brave new world and all,” he muttered. “So who knows…”

Aziraphale blinked at him, like he heard him saying something else, too. “Really?”

Crowley wanted to deny everything. Instead, he stared, squinty-eyed, at the ceiling and said, “It’s an. Angel wing begonia.”

_“Crowley.”_

“Don’t—ughhh. I’m not… saying anything,” Crowley said between his teeth.

“Yes, dearest,” said Aziraphale, glowing.

Crowley maybe reflected it. Just a bit.

**Author's Note:**

> If this fic had footnotes, they would be as follows:
> 
> * _…a cherubim at the wall of the Garden…_ Cherubim is plural, of course; however, see re: Proginoskes.  
> ** _At some point it occurred, faintly, to Crowley to wonder if angel tears would qualify as holy water._ They do, under normal circumstances. (However, world-saving demons in love with angels and humanity do not generally qualify as “normal circumstances.”) 
> 
> —
> 
> [Not So Blue by pineapplecrushface](http://archiveofourown.org/works/19136914) — description of Heaven as a car dealership is entirely due to this fic, which everyone should go read immediately — I tried and TRIED to think of something better, but there IS nothing better, so *shrug emoji*. Seriously though, go read it, it’s wonderful. 
> 
> I know pretty much nothing about traditional angel theology, but according to my (cursory) research, Hanael is an angel “of joy” from Jewish lore; and Israfil is an angel from Islamic tradition, sometimes associated with music, and often considered the same as Raphael. 
> 
> “Ahuvi/ahuvati” translates to “my love” in Hebrew, addressed to a male/a female, respectively. 
> 
> If you want to know what an angel wing begonia looks like, [here are some examples.](https://ineffably-soft.tumblr.com/post/186290980557/just-wanted-to-show-everyone-what-an-angel-wing)
> 
> If you would like to come talk about Michael Sheen's unbearable face and other matters, join me on my Good Omens sideblog: [ineffably-soft.tumblr.com](http://ineffably-soft.tumblr.com) Or on the ~super secret blog that I co-author, [wholesome-revelry.](http://wholesome-revelry.tumblr.com)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [I Fell Into Grace](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19963873) by [pinafortuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinafortuna/pseuds/pinafortuna)
  * [I Fell Into Grace (Podfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20186638) by [BiP](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BiP/pseuds/BiP)




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